Love, Love, Love
by Vivi Marius
Summary: Those bright blue eyes can only meet mine across a room filled with people that are less important than you. "You must stay safe, John. Above all, you must be protected, even from me."


John, how you have forgiven me I will never know. I knew, even before I jumped, the way you looked at me was dangerous. The barely-concealed lust was easy to read on you: dilated pupils, increased respiration rate, your gorgeously steady left hand as you licked your lips. But with Moriarty moving pieces about the board, we did not have time for feelings beyond our normal ones.

And then I had to break you. I knew what I was doing, but I needed to do it. You were too close, John. We had only been together for a year and a half; you, the steady center and I, orbiting you like an electron, unpredictable and constantly in motion. But always with you pulling me back to your gravity, giving me the harbor I had needed so desperately. How could I let that get destroyed? Your death would have eaten the two of us alive, John. I would do anything to prevent it, even now.

Now. Your gaze flicks over me, watching as I talk to the police. Our eyes meet for one electric second like lightning before you look away. How did you forgive me? How did you accept me back into your life? I had been counting on you to push me away. It is what any sane person would have done-but then, I should have known, neither of us is sane in the ways that count. I destroyed them all to keep you safe and I was planning on you to do the same and repel me like a magnet. But no, the opposite end; you clung more to me. You had realized your feelings while I was dead (as had I-John, the mere thought of you as I hunted strings, my heart began to soar and my spirits lifted, but I knew then of your rejection and allowed it to stay a fantasy) and I cannot reciprocate.

You must stay safe, John. Above all, you must be protected, even from me.

While Moriarty's web is gone, there are still criminals to be caught. We chase after them and sometimes they chase us back. They are just as dangerous as Moriarty, though he had strategy and planning. But these criminals have something worse: luck. There is no planned end for you by my side, but one could always happen. A stray bullet in the wrong place. A cricket bat to the head that was meant for me. Pushed out of a window. A bloody speeding cab would do the trick, without a criminal in sight. Unacceptable.

I look at you and know you do not understand. You are more empathetic than I will ever be, John. Perhaps you have picked up on my feelings for you, though I try my best to school them into place. Each time I reject you, I can see the emotions play out on your face. Sadness, humiliation, confusion. You have never gotten it right; never understood why I must keep you at an arm's length.

Our eyes meet again. You jerk your head and walk to the exit. I follow, my attempts at not following you are futile. I have already told the police over and over who the killer is, they simply haven't listened yet. They will, they always do. You hail a cab and order it back to our home. The ride is tense; you are looking at me when you think I cannot see, your eyes flicking back and forth (trying to deduce me, John?), your hands curling into gentle fists on your thighs. You want to ask me something, but you are waiting until we get back to the flat. Something personal, then. Perhaps another half-hearted attempt to kiss me? (My heart skips a beat at the thought. It always does.) Only you know for now.

I pay the cabbie this time, and you lead us up the stairs. Jackets off and hanging up, and you grip the back of your chair as I walk to mine.

"Sherlock-"

"Tea would be lovely, thank you," I interrupt. I hate having to let you down. I know I am crushing you after each attempt is made. You would probably say I am breaking your heart. I would grind it into a million pieces if you would be alive at the end of it. I am giving you an out. We do not have to do this again. Each time you try so hard and I must reject you. Once, I let you get close to me, almost close enough to kiss. I pulled away and you let me go, but my blood wouldn't stop singing for the rest of the night. I wanted-I want-that again, but I was ruthless in my rejection. Why do you keep trying John? What gives it away that you are correct; that I am made weak with wanting you?

"No," you answer, hands tightening on your chair.

The hard way then.

"John, if this is another attempt at courting me, I must say it's rather lackluster compared to your earlier efforts. Last time, at least I got a new microscope out of it," I sigh. I pick up my bow and rosin it, needing to do something with my hands that does not include grabbing you.

"It's not-" You pull at your own hair and I raise an eyebrow. That gesture is new, though the frustration behind it is not. "I've figured you out."

"Have you?"

"You don't want me hurt."

I pause, putting the rosin down and grabbing my violin. Your perception is correct this time, John. "And you're just catching on now, after I faked my death to save your life? Please, stop the presses and put that up on your blog," I scoff even as my heart beats faster.

You cross your arms-not defensive, but commanding. "I know I'm right on this one. You don't want me to get caught in the crossfire again; that's why you won't stop being ridiculous and let this happen between us," you say. You are calm, and I check you hands: steady and unyielding.

"And what is happening between us?"

"Sherlock, I was an army doctor. Running into the crossfire is something I do." You have ignored me. I'm not surprised, but usually you have more tact than that. "I want this, and you want this. That's where the problems should stop."

I look away, rolling my eyes. You see the world so simply, John.

"In the end, it is simple."

Damn. I suppose I said that out loud, then. "No, it is not," I reply, furiously running my bow over the strings. You are getting too perceptive, John. By the end of this, I might be kissing you, and that is (more than acceptable) unacceptable for your safety.

"Sherlock." You are much closer to me than you were before. Having you close only muddles my emotions further. I would move if it would not be an obvious retreat. You crouch down by my chair, one hand on the armrest. "I know you think that...abstaining would be better, but it's not. For both of us." I look at your face, so honest and open. I try to will my eyes to ice, try and turn away from you and this idealistic tale you are trying to convince us to believe in. "The night we met, you nearly killed yourself to prove you're clever. And that day on the roof, you almost killed yourself to keep me alive," you say, touching your hand to mine.

I snort. "What are you trying to say, John? That this will work because we balance each other, because we complete each other? This idealism is unbecoming on you. You are good for me, yes, but the opposite isn't true."

You stand, pacing back and forth from the fireplace to the coffee table. "Who cured my limp? Who made me smile, made me laugh again? Who in the bloody hell felt-feels so alive running next to you?" You are practically shouting now. I feel like I should reciprocate, but I keep my voice calm and emotionless.

"Who would have caused your death?"

"Moriarty," you snap back at me. "It is not your fault, Sherlock! It never even happened!"

"But it could happen!" I shout, leaping up from the chair. Ah. I rather tipped my hand a bit. I drop my eyes from yours, adjust my suit, turn to the window. Put my defenses back up. You are blessedly silent, allowing me to regain composure for a moment.

"Sherlock." You sound broken, but I cannot look. One of us has to be rational about this, and it is obvious it has to be me. "You-your mind. You're brilliant. You think you're immune to useless thoughts but you're not. There are a lot of what-ifs in the world, Sherlock. I didn't think you would have been one to indulge in them." You sound calmer now, and softer. I hate the gentling voice even as I feel my defenses melt a bit. It hasn't been like this all the other times.

"A machine calculates every possible outcome of any given moment."

"And machines don't deserve love?"

I want to say yes (very much so) but I cannot allow myself to hope. You are trying to push me into accepting this between us. I want (so many things, I want) but I cannot have. There will be no indulgence in me. I indulge in drugs, crimes, and knowledge. I cannot let you become an addiction as well. "Machines cannot return emotions," I settle on saying.

"Good job you're not a machine, then," you say, just as gentle as before, but now adding touch. Just your fingers on my spine, my T4 vertebrae. It nearly breaks me in half as my body relaxes. I am scrambling to get away from you but my body will not (cannot) tear itself away from you. This, this is not fair. I turn to tell you so, but you interrupt me with the press of your lips on mine. It is simple, but effective. I can feel all of my worries, all of my arguments melting away from this simple kiss. This is new, exciting-the one time you tried to kiss me I had slipped away from you. I knew this would happen if we ever did kiss. This is fatal for all of my resistance. God, John, what would you do to me if you used your tongue? What would sex be like-could you retrain my neural paths to direct only to you (I think they already are)?

We break apart. "That was a very bad idea," I manage to say.

"Probably."

"Dangerous."

"Yes."

"More," I sigh, leaning back into you.


End file.
